The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane

by Jaimie Admans

  I try not to show the bitter disappointment that feels like it’s bleeding out of my pores. The idea of doing this without him suddenly feels daunting rather than exciting. I force myself to push three bagpipe-playing nutcrackers together and take a photo of them. I knew he was only here for the month. I knew he was going back to his real life, his real job, and I’m one of the only people who knows about his father’s illness and his trepidation about what he’s facing. There’s just something about being with him that makes the impossible feel like it’s within touching distance.

  I can feel the sense of sadness permeating from him as we carry on wandering the aisles, going in a different direction, drifting away from each other.

  ‘There are old ones in storage.’

  ‘What?’ My head pings up.

  ‘Not here. At the head office. They have old ones.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘The factory was founded in the 1930s. They have original ones from Germany, and some they bought from all over the world in an attempt to replicate what was already popular, and of course they have a copy of every one that’s ever been made here to keep track of how they’ve evolved over the years. That could be an interesting exhibit.’ He must notice my confused look because he adds, ‘I saw them when I was collecting stock.’

  ‘They have eighty-something years’ worth of nutcrackers and they’re not using them …’

  He scratches the back of his neck, his eyes intently focused on the nutcracker in his hand. ‘Maybe they didn’t realise they could be important.’

  ‘And you said your parents might have newspaper clippings about the magical nutcracker. We could showcase his story …’

  ‘And wishes aren’t just for Christmas, right? They could keep being granted all year through?’

  I look over the top of the shelf at him in the next aisle. ‘So you do think there’s something in this …’

  He looks up and meets my eyes across a row of nutcrackers, and the look in his is intense and unwavering enough to make my breath catch. ‘If you got that excited about going ballroom dancing with hungry sharks, I’d support it.’

  ‘How would that work?’ I furrow my eyebrows. ‘Would the ballroom be in the water or would the sharks be in the ballroom? You might think the sharks wouldn’t be too supportive of this idea. And quite heavy to do a waltz with, I would imagine …’

  ‘And how would they ever get their fins into dancing shoes?’ His mouth twitches as he tries to stop himself laughing.

  I force myself to turn away and pick up a purple nutcracker with a giant pinecone in his hand and a Christmas tree on his head and indicate around the shop with it. ‘I can’t believe you did this. You know how to surprise a girl.’

  ‘I didn’t know whether I’d be intruding. I know it was something you did with your grandmother and I didn’t want to blunder in and encroach on that tradition in case you didn’t want anyone else’s involvement.’

  Once again, I’m struck by how thoughtful and empathic he is. It’s been a heck of a long time since I met a man like him. ‘Things are different this year. You’ve shown me that even though a lot of Christmas is about nostalgia and remembering the years and people who came before, it can also be about making new memories and letting new people in when you never thought you would.’

  I hear him swallow and clear his throat, and he has no idea how much I want to kiss him. ‘We’re going to be here all night at this rate. You choose this year’s nutcracker for me. I don’t mind what it looks like.’

  ‘Me?’ He sounds like I’ve asked him to pluck the stings from stinging nettles.

  ‘Yeah. It’s not about the nutcrackers so much as the memories of getting them, and believe me, I am never going to forget this one.’

  He’s trying to hide a proud smile as he wanders round, picking up nutcrackers, appraising them and returning them to their spaces on the shelves. ‘This is not as easy as it looks. I’m trying to find the perfect one. I’d kind of like you to remember me fondly when you get it out next year. And have a nice big one to throw darts at when you hate me.’

  Remember him fondly? Hate him? He talks like he’s going away … Like I’m not going to see him after this. I know he’s got a lot to face next year, and even though Nutcracker Lane will close in January and everything is up in the air at the moment, he’s talking like he’s going to disappear. I thought we had something here. Are we not friends … or whatever … who are going to stay in touch?

  He only lives half an hour away. Even if my ideas for Nutcracker Lane turn out to be nothing more than a pipe dream and Scrooge bulldozes the whole place next year and I spend all my days in a panicked haze of jobhunting, I’m going to make time to see him. If he thinks he’s going to get that cast off his arm in January without me holding his other hand, he’s got another thing coming. And he’s not dealing with his father’s illness by himself either. But he talks like we’re never going to see each other again after Nutcracker Lane closes.

  Unless he is going to turn back into a wooden soldier on Christmas Day.

  I’m pretty sure it’s not the latter, but I can’t find the words to say anything, so I concentrate on the nutcrackers instead. I don’t realise I’m trying to find one for him too until I come across the perfect one. It’s wearing all black apart from gold boots and an amber gem belt, but the Japanese art of kintsugi has been tried out on it, so it’s covered in cracks but each one is patched up with fine lines of gold. It’s got big brown eyes and black furry hair that’s a bit longer than usual, and it’s wearing a crown and holding an intricately carved wooden bell to ring in the season that dings when you push it. It’s got a kind of regal look that’s different to other nutcrackers. It’s so him that it could have been made for him.

  I’m so eager to give it to him that I’m glad when he yells ‘got it’ and thrusts a nutcracker in the air victoriously, and immediately regrets it when the movement pulls on still-healing ribs.

  We meet at the checkout counter and he hands me the nutcracker he’s chosen, one with green legs going down into furry white boots that I’ve never seen before, a red Christmas jumper with actual pom poms glued onto his wooden body, a tiny Christmas tree held in his hand and a Santa hat on the hair around his head that’s almost the same shade of brown as mine.

  ‘Oh, James.’ I bite my lip to stop my eyes watering. ‘He’s amazing. Exactly the one I would’ve chosen myself. I even have a pair of boots like that. I never wear them because furry boots don’t work so well with our English drizzle, but I get them out and admire them occasionally. And now I have a nutcracker wearing them …’ I’m rambling to stop myself enveloping him in a bear hug. Out of the thousands of nutcrackers here, he’s picked the exact one I would’ve grabbed if I’d seen it myself. ‘Thank you.’ I can barely get the words out as I take it from him. ‘You know I’m getting one for you too, don’t you?’

  The smile that crosses his face is slow at first, gradually getting wider as I pull it out from behind my back and hold it out, waiting for his good hand to close around it.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s broken.’

  ‘No, it’s not. The Japanese mend cracks with gold resin to illuminate each repair an object has undergone. They believe flaws should be celebrated and each break is a unique part of every item’s history that only adds to its beauty.’

  He swallows hard. ‘Believe me, I celebrate these breaks every single day because I wouldn’t have met you without them.’

  ‘Aww.’ I push my bottom lip out because I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or not, even though the look in his eyes is soft and distant and he looks genuinely touched.

  ‘I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I can honestly say no one’s ever bought me a nutcracker before.’ He takes the nutcracker out of my hand and runs the fingers of his broken arm across it. He seems to be considering saying something else but he eventually thinks better of it. ‘We should pay. Can I …’

  I kn
ow he’s such a gent that he’s going to offer to pay for his own nutcracker but I’ve already pulled my purse out, thankful I had the forethought to shove it into my pocket while he was waiting downstairs earlier. He goes behind the counter, opens the till to put the money in, grabs a notebook from underneath and writes a note saying “Two nutcrackers gone, money in till. Thanks ~ J” and I wonder two things simultaneously – is he really on such familiar terms with the factory owners, and how can even the way someone writes be sexy?

  He must notice me watching him write because he says, ‘What’s the difference between the Christmas alphabet and the regular alphabet?’

  It’s got be another one of his bad jokes but I can’t think of an answer to catch him out. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The Christmas alphabet has no-el.’

  I can’t stop myself laughing, even though it’s not because the joke is funny but because of how ridiculously proud he looks as he chucks an extra five pence into the till and takes a bag, carefully settling both our nutcrackers into it and handing it to me to carry.

  After he turns the lights off and locks up behind us, he stops me at the edge of the alleyway before we turn into the main lane. ‘One second.’

  He pulls his phone out and opens an app on it, doing something until … suddenly the whole world lights up. Every pillar, every lamppost, every hanging garland, every extra tree that’s been erected in the lane in the past couple of weeks, they all spring into fairy-light life. The nutcracker village starts up its mechanical movement behind us, and the first few bars of “Grown-Up Christmas List” by Kelly Clarkson filter through the overhead speaker.

  ‘The decorations!’ I look around in surprise. ‘This is, like, all of them. Ever. Right?’

  ‘I might’ve emptied the storeroom. And the shop. I wanted to make it like it was, Nia. I know there’s only three days until Christmas and it’s too little, too late, and I wish I’d met you earlier and we’d done all of this at the beginning of the season …’

  I reach out and take his hand. ‘I’m more concerned that you did this yourself with one arm.’

  ‘I appreciate you thinking I’m Superman, but I couldn’t have done this by myself even without the broken bones. I had help from some of the others. I wanted to make it special for you, just one last time, before …’

  There’s that “before” thing again. Like there’s some kind of deadline coming up. Like by Christmas all this will be over. Does he know something about the lane that I don’t? Has he overheard Scrooge’s plans when he’s been to collect stock and he knows that everything we’re doing to save Nutcracker Lane will ultimately be for nothing? Or is he just naturally pessimistic? I decide that everything looks so beautiful and he’s gone to so much effort that I don’t want to think about it tonight.

  I squeeze his hand. ‘I can’t believe you did this. It’s perfect. You know this is one of my favourite Christmas songs, don’t you?’

  ‘I might’ve asked Stacey. I wanted it to be special.’

  We’re still in darkness, but the way is lit by fairy lights now, twinkling and sparkling in every direction. Every streetlamp is glowing orange and every post is wrapped with white lights. The rainbow-coloured candle bulbs stapled along the eaves of each shop are shining, and the green garlands draped above our heads are covered with white lights chasing each other in sequence. The giant baubles I remember from the olden days are suspended from each ceiling support by huge red satin ribbons, and curtains of white lights are cascading down like a waterfall, interspersed with blue snowflakes, while my favourite Christmas song plays quietly above us.

  ‘I just wanted you to know someone’s listening.’

  ‘You. From that first night in the storeroom, you’ve listened to me. Even though you hated Christmas and I’m sure you weren’t interested in Nutcracker Lane at all, you still listened to me. And now look at it. You’ve made it perfect again.’ I let go of his hand long enough to spin around with my arms out, indicating all the lights around me. He laughs when I nearly clonk him round the head with the two nutcrackers in the bag as we wander back up the shimmering lane and I try to make myself behave like an adult.

  ‘James …’ I pick up his hand again, wondering when I ever became such a hand-holder. It’s not something I’ve ever done before, but I feel like something’s missing when my fingers aren’t entwined with his. ‘Thank you. This is amazing. I never thought I’d see it like this again. If this is the end of Nutcracker Lane, this is the best way it could’ve ended. Thank you for making this year so incredibly special.’

  ‘It won’t be.’ He sounds a lot more confident than I feel. ‘Thank you for showing me how special this place is.’

  The song changes to the very fitting “Walking In A Winter Wonderland” and we’re both wandering as slowly as possible. I don’t want this to be over yet, and he’s doing the same and hopefully that means he doesn’t want it to either.

  He stops when we get to the magical nutcracker and moves my hand so it’s hooked through his elbow instead as he lays his arm on the picket fence and rests his chin on it.

  ‘You okay?’ I hang the bag containing the nutcrackers over one of the fence posts and use my free hand to reach out and stroke his hair just once, an excuse to touch him, twisting my arms like a pretzel because it’s such an awkward position.

  ‘Just thinking about magic,’ he murmurs as his eyes drift shut, and even though I was only going to touch his hair once, he tilts his head towards me and it’s not that easy.

  ‘You? Thinking about magic? Have you been at the painkillers again? Are you about to start asking “how many iguanas are there in a mile?” or other nonsensical questions?’

  He laughs. ‘No. Being with you makes me feel like a kid at Christmas. I forget everything I’ve always hated, all the practicality, all the cynicism. You make me believe in anything.’ He sighs and shakes his head at himself. ‘What would your Christmas wish be?’

  ‘Nutcracker Lane,’ I say without thinking about it. I turn around and look at the twinkling lane.

  ‘What, all of it?’ He turns around too, leaning back on his elbows against the fence.

  ‘No. I don’t know. I just want it to survive. To thrive. To still be here next Christmas. Hopefully all year through, but I’m not holding my breath about convincing Scrooge to turn it into a nutcracker museum. I think that’d take more than a Christmas miracle.’

  ‘Three weeks ago, you told me anything’s possible at Christmastime. Make a wish.’ He looks upwards. ‘The stars are twinkling just right, and if I opened a door, I reckon the wind would ripple his beard …’

  Three weeks and one night ago, I made a wish and I think it might’ve come true. It feels like magic is dancing in the air tonight. There’s an icy breeze foxtrotting down the lane, so real I can almost see the air glittering and hear the faint tinkling of jingle bells. When I look up through the glass ceiling, I can make out constellations in the winter sky. It’s a night for making wishes.

  I go inside the fence and take a walnut from the vending machine, keeping an eye on James in case this is some sort of wind-up and he’s going to film it and put me on YouTube or something, but when I look back at him, his chin is resting on his arm across the fence again and he’s watching me with a soft smile on his face.

  He gives me an encouraging nod as I walk up to the nutcracker, place the nut into his mouth and reach around to pull the lever, something I’ve done many times before but somehow feels different tonight, enchanted somehow, like this wish is the important one.

  I look up at the nutcracker’s rosy-cheeked wooden face, the benevolent and homely face that you’d picture on a beloved grandpa, and I can’t help smiling at him as I bring his lever down and the shell starts to split. ‘I wish for Nutcracker Lane … in whichever way it’s going to survive and prosper for as many years as possible.’

  I pick the walnut out of the shell and pop it in my mouth, and when I look back, James is still watching me with heavy eyes and a sleepy s
mile. I take a walnut from the vending machine on my way out and he makes a noise and scrunches the fingers of his hand so I grab another one and go back to stand next to him.

  I deposit both nuts in his hand. ‘Your turn.’

  Instead of going to the nutcracker, he positions the seam of both nuts against each other in his good hand and presses them together, using just enough force to shatter the shells. He holds one out to me.

  My eyes go wide. I had no idea that was possible. ‘That’s an impressive party trick.’

  ‘Guess you could say I’m a real nutcracker.’

  I choke on said nut. Why does he keep coming out with this stuff? As soon as I’m certain that he’s really, really real, he says something like that. ‘Aren’t you going to make a wish?’

  ‘I don’t need to.’ He swallows his walnut and looks me directly in the eyes. ‘Mine already came true.’

  I go hot all over and my traitorous knees threaten to give out at the idea that he means what I so desperately hope he means.

  ‘Nee, that first night in the storeroom. I wished for someone to l—’ He corrects himself quickly before he says the “l” word. ‘To care about me, and you haven’t stopped looking after me since.’ He presses his lips together but they still twitch towards a smile, and I realise I’ve stopped breathing and have to gasp for air.

  ‘Do you know how much I love that advent calendar? And it’s not because of the chocolate – it’s because every morning when I open a door, I think of you. The moment I met you, it was like something unclenched in my chest. I’ve never felt so instantly comfortable with someone. I’ve never been so instantly at home with someone. From that night in the storeroom, I’d have felt like I was cheating on you if I’d even looked at someone else, which would’ve been a complete impossibility because you’ve occupied my every thought since then.’